'Not even to see the look of surprise on Father's face?'
'Not even for that.'
'But you used to love London at one time.'
'Those days are gone, Penelope,' she said wistfully. 'I have found other pleasures in life. They have proved more reliable. Come,' she said, rising to her feet and pulling her daughter after her. 'Let us take a stroll. I will show you where I am having the new pond situated. They are to start digging next week. We will have made substantial progress by the time your father returns.' She held back a sigh. 'Whenever that may be.'
Christopher Redmayne threw caution to the winds and set out alone. He was in too much of a hurry to wait for the security of an escort to Kent, trusting instead in a fast horse, a strong sword-arm and an instinct for danger. Only one incident disrupted his long ride south. As the afternoon began to shade into evening, he saw a figure on the brow of the hill ahead of him. Crouched beneath a tree, the man used a crutch to haul himself upright and hobbled to the middle of the road. His hand stretched out in search of alms. Dressed in rags and wearing a battered old hat, he looked like a lonely beggar but there was something about him which alerted Christopher, who took note of the thick bushes nearby. It was an ideal place for an ambush. From that vantage point, anyone approaching in either direction could be seen a long way off. Christopher could not understand why a lame man should drag himself up such a steep hill.
Slowing his horse to a trot, he held the reins in his left hand while keeping the right free. It was a wise precaution. When the rider was only a few yards away, the beggar suddenly sprang to life, shed his apparent lameness and ran forward, lifting the crutch to swing it viciously at his quarry. Christopher's sword was out in a flash, parrying the blow then jabbing hard to inflict a wound in the man's shoulder. Two accomplices leaped out from behind the bushes but they, too, met their match. The first was kicked full in the face and the second had the cudgel struck from his hand by the flashing sword. Before any of the trio could recover, Christopher was galloping hell-for-leather down the other side of the hill.
The remainder of the journey passed without interruption. Unable to reach his destination before nightfall, Christopher elected to stay at an inn and rest his horse. It was only when he climbed into bed that he realised how tired he was. Before he could even begin to review his day, he was fast asleep. Restored and refreshed, he was up shortly after dawn to eat a simple breakfast. The landlord, a big barrel of a man with flabby lips and a bulbous nose, came across to offer guidance.
'Do you travel far, sir?' he asked.
'I am not sure,' said Christopher. 'I am heading for a place near Sevenoaks.'
'What's the name?'
'Shipbourne.'
'Where, sir?'
'Shipbourne.'
The landlord chuckled. 'There are no ships born around here, sir. We're miles from the sea. I think you must want Shibborn. That's what we call it, sir. Not Ship-bourne. Stubborn.'
'How far away is it?'
'Eight or nine miles.'
'Good. Would you happen to have heard of Priestfield Place?'
'Everyone's heard of it,' said the other, his face hardening. 'The estate belongs to Sir Ambrose Northcott. All five hundred acres of it. Sir Ambrose is well known in this county.'
'Well known and well liked?'
'Ask that of his tenants, sir.'
'What do you mean?'
'They do not speak too kindly of him,' muttered the landlord. 'That is all I am prepared to say. I never met Sir Ambrose myself so I am no judge if he is really as harsh as they claim.'
'How would I find Priestfield Place?'
'Strike off to the left before you reach Shibborn, sir. You will see a signpost to Plaxtol. The estate lies between the two of them.'
'Thank you, landlord.'
'Are you a friend of Sir Ambrose?' probed the other.
Christopher gave a noncommittal nod. He was carrying sad tidings which the Northcott family deserved to hear first. He did not want the news to be spread by means of rumour through the mouth of a portly innkeeper.
Having paid his bill, he set off. It was a fine morning and his ride took him through undulating countryside which offered all kinds of attractive vistas. Christopher saw little of them. He was too distracted by the questions which had haunted him since the moment of discovery in the cellars of the house near Baynard's Castle.
Why did Sir Ambrose Northcott visit the site so late of an evening? Who was his companion? What was the motive behind the murder? Why had Solomon Creech reacted with such fear when he heard of the crime? There were subsidiary questions about the house in Westminster, the whereabouts of Sir Ambrose during his long absence from London and the nature of his political activities. Christopher was reminded time and again just how little he really knew of the man for whom he had designed a house. Why had Henry kept so much from his brother? Sir Ambrose Northcott was hidden behind a veil of secrecy. For what purpose? One final question tugged repeatedly at Christopher's mind.
Why did Jonathan Bale seem to resent him so much?
His cogitations carried him all the way to the crude signpost with the first mention of Plaxtol. Christopher turned his horse down a narrow track which had been baked hard by the sun and which ran between bramble bushes. Riding at a steady canter, he soon found himself entering the outer reaches of Priestfield Place. Most of it was tenanted and those who farmed it were out working in the fields but Sir Ambrose had reserved a vast swathe of land at the very heart of the estate. After passing a herd of cows, grazing contentedly in a meadow, Christopher followed a twisting path through woodland before coming out into open country again. The house positively leaped into view. It still lay over half a mile away but its effect was dramatic.
Set in an elevated position, Priestfield Place was an Elizabethan manor house of the finest quality. It was built of rose-coloured brick which blossomed in the sunshine and which conveyed an impression both of solidity and delicacy. The house was shaped like the letter H, its central portion gabled, its four corners guarded by octagonal turrets which were topped by gilt weather vanes. Climbing to three storeys and roofed with red tiles, it was an imposing edifice which yielded ever more fresh and arresting detail the closer he got to it. Christopher was staggered by the generosity of its proportions and its sheer presence. The new London residence which Sir Ambrose Northcott had commissioned from him was imposing enough. Compared to Priestfield Place, however, it was a mere gatehouse.
When he reached the paved courtyard, he brought his mount to a halt so that he could admire the fountain in which water from sixteen separate invisible pipes played into the huge scallop shell held by the statue of Venus before cascading down again. Then he let his gaze travel to the elaborate porch over which the royal coat of arms had been carved in stone to commemorate a visit by Queen Elizabeth in the previous century. Before he could feast his eyes on the facade, Christopher saw a manservant emerging from the porch. When he introduced himself and announced his business, the visitor was invited into the house while his horse was stabled by an ostler.
Conducted into the Great Hall, he noted the striking pattern in the marble floor, the carved heads on some of the oak panelling and the array of family portraits. Over the mantelpiece hung a large painting of the late master of the house. Sir Ambrose was wearing a breastplate, holding a helmet and striking a military pose. The bold glare was that of a man who considered himself invincible. Christopher sighed inwardly.
Having asked to speak alone to Lady Northcott, he was surprised to see two ladies being shown into the hall. Penelope was keen to hear any news relating to her father and, though neither women yet sensed how devastating that news would be, both seemed to have braced themselves for disappointment. Introductions were made then the two women sat beside each other. Christopher lowered himself on to a chair opposite them. He cleared his throat before speaking.